


First Time(s)

by thebright1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), First Time, French Revolution, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Alteration, Name-Calling, Post-Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Sex, Sexy Cravats, Smut, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), fucking while pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23264179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: “What? What do you mean you want me to miracle away our memories?” Crowley says, irritated and offended.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 218





	1. Paris, 1793

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 was inspired by [Miele Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite)'s [beautiful artwork on Tumblr](https://mielpetite.tumblr.com/post/190637173787/should-i-have-been-working-on-ineffable). 
> 
> Thank you to [overwhelmingly_awesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/overwhelmingly_awesome/pseuds/overwhelmingly_awesome) and [chewb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb) for beta reading for me!

1793, Paris

The next time Aziraphale is hungry, he chooses a very specific outfit to wear to get his Parisian crepes. He knows Crowley is in France. He dresses very carefully, pulling on his hose, selecting his nicest shoes, tying his cravat. It’s a test. An experiment, if he’s being scientific about the whole thing. He wants to see how much Crowley remembers about last time. _ If  _ he remembers anything about the last time. Aziraphale remembers everything, and it’s driving him to distraction. 

It is not his intent to get locked up in the Bastille, but it is what happens. Crowley does not make any favorable remarks about Aziraphale’s outfit. He doesn’t mention the shoes. He doesn’t realize that when Aziraphale switched clothes with the guard, he kept the cravat. Crowley is silent on all of the tells. Crowley has forgotten. Aziraphale did that, and he hates himself for it. 

Aziraphale is not sure if he should call the experiment a success or a failure. Crowley doesn’t remember. He shouldn’t remember. He asked Aziraphale to make him forget, and Aziraphale had done it. 

But Aziraphale remembers. Aziraphale is hungry again. 

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley are tucked inside a small restaurant at a rickety table in the back corner. Bleary afternoon light streams in from the dusty windows in the front of the establishment. Most of the lunch crowd is gone, only a few other people at their tables. Aziraphale finishes his crepe with a hum of satisfaction. He can feel Crowley’s eyes on him. He resolutely does not look at the demon. 

“Well, has your craving been satisfied, angel?”

“Partially,” Aziraphale says truthfully. He  _ had _ wanted crepes. But there is something else he is hungry for, a hunger that has been eating away at him since the last time he and Crowley were together. Aziraphale went home afterwards and tried to pretend that everything was normal. Everything  _ wasn’t _ normal. Several times he has been on the verge of performing the miracle on himself-- making himself forget everything that happened, just like he made Crowley forget. Each time he has ended up instead with his trousers round his ankles, crying out Crowley’s name, as he comes into his hand. It’s been exquisite anguish, this heartbreak. 

So here he is once more. This time, everything he is going to do will be erased from history. Crowley will make sure of it. Crowley will take care of him, if Aziraphale asks him to. Crowley always does. There’s such freedom in forgetting. Aziraphale feels brazen, feels empowered to be so, because everything he says and does now will all be forgotten, like a wave washing away letters written in the sand. This moment will be lost to history, lost to him, so he won’t be able to relive any shame or doubt. He won’t know what he has done. He won’t care. He will go back to that time before 1783. Before knowing. Back to the bliss of ignorance. 

“You can’t want more crepes,” Crowley says, looking dubiously at the empty plates in front of Aziraphale and himself. Crowley had only eaten a quarter of his own crepe before switching plates with Aziraphale to let him finish. “Are we on the hunt for brioche now?”

Aziraphale waves a hand. “No, I was more thinking about some wine, maybe champagne.” 

Crowley smiles. “We’re in Paris, I think you’ve come to the right place for champagne. There’s a great place over-”

“I was thinking just,” Aziraphale interrupts, “Uhm, back at your flat, maybe?” He tells himself that he shouldn’t be nervous and smiles, albeit shyly. He has nothing to be nervous about. This is all going to go fine. He knows Crowley. He knows that Crowley wants him. He knows what Crowley sounds like when he comes. He knows how Crowley’s skin tastes under his tongue. He knows that Crowley will follow his lead. “Or are you renting a house?” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’ve got bottles of champagne at my place?” 

Aziraphale scoffs. “I have known you for over five thousand years, my dear.”

Crowley shrugs. “Fair point.” He tilts his head. “Why at my flat, though? And it is a flat, I wouldn’t dream of owning a house in this city right now.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, but then pauses. He hadn’t thought of a good excuse. He tells himself he doesn’t need one. He  _ knows _ he doesn’t need one. He knows that Crowley wants this. Crowley told him as much the last time. . . even though Crowley doesn’t remember the last time. “We could spend some time together. Alone.”

Crowley draws his lower lip into his mouth, lets it slowly roll back out. “Alone?”

Aziraphale nods. His voice pitches a shade lower. “Just the two of us. Together. Alone, and together.” 

Crowley looks . . . dubious. Suspicious. “Is something wrong?” 

Aziraphale dithers. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“You look nervous.” 

He huffs, lowers his voice. “I  _ am _ nervous, my dear. It’s not every day that I make an overture like this.”  _ Do you suspect?  _ Aziraphale wonders.  _ Does something feel off to you?  _

“What exact overture are you making?” Crowley asks slowly.

“Crowley!” he says. He frowns. “I’m being very obvious and you’re being deliberately obtuse.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Apparently not. You want to go back to mine and drink? Just the two of us? Instead of going out to a pub?”

“Yes!” 

“Why?”

Aziraphale feels completely out of his depth. After the things Crowley said last time, after the way he acted. . . Aziraphale thought getting Crowley into bed was going to be the easy part. “Are you really going to make me spell it out?”

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, so yes, you are going to need to spell it out for me, angel.” 

Aziraphale squirms. “I would very much like to go back to your place and be alone, together, with you, in private, because I want. . . “ he trails off, swallows, and then looks directly at Crowley.  _ You’re going to forget this, _ he reminds himself. Crowley will forget it.  _ You can speak up. You can say what you want. You never have to live with these repercussions. _ “I want you to take me to bed,” he says in a low voice. 

Crowley’s jaw drops. His arms fall to his sides. He looks completely gobsmacked. 

Aziraphale purses his lips, huffily. “You needn't look so surprised. I thought I was being obvious.” 

A slow smile begins to curve one corner of Crowley’s mouth. He looks like he can’t believe his luck. He looks . . . so  _ happy _ , Aziraphale realizes. Part of Aziraphale wants to cry at this revelation. But another part of him is hungry, and crying in an entirely different way.. “Are you . . .” Crowley begins. He looks around the restaurant, lowers his voice. “Are you  _ really _ . . .” His eyes peek over the rim of his sunglasses and burn a hole through Aziraphale’s heart. “Aziraphale, you and I, you want to. . . with me? ” 

Aziraphale nods. “I hope so.” 

Crowley’s face splits into a grin. He’s triumphant now, slightly mocking, confident. Aziraphale finds the confidence extremely arousing. “You  _ did _ know I was in the area.”

Aziraphale looks down at his empty plate, hums. “I did.” 

“And you came here . . . for this?”

Aziraphale wants to catch his eyes, still peeking over the rim of his glasses. He wants to say that he came here for so much more. He came here because he’s heartbroken over Crowley and desperate for him. He wants to say that he’s here because he loves him. Instead, Aziraphale looks over Crowley’s shoulder, gives what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug. He feels blood rush to his face. “I was hungry,” he says simply. His voice doesn’t catch. He was afraid it would.

Crowley reaches a hand out and covers Aziraphale’s own, where it lays discarded next to his fork. “Angel,” Crowley says seriously, “look at me.” 

Aziraphale shifts and then Crowley has captured his eyes with his own. 

“What brought this on?” 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I really don’t-” he begins primly, but then pauses. “I think it’s best if we discuss that in private, but Crowley, it’s . . . this is not a new thing.” He turns his hand over, tickles the underside of Crowley’s palm with his fingers. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

Crowley’s grin grows wider and Aziraphale can’t dwell on his heartbreak because his heart feels so very full with that smile. He smiles back. “Me too,” Crowley says. 

* * *

Crowley uses Aziraphale to shut the door to the flat behind them. He pins the angel to the door, pressing the full length of his body up against Aziraphale. Crowley’s hands are pressed into the wood on either side of Aziraphale’s head. He pauses, his mouth inches away from Aziraphale. “Do you want the champagne first?” he asks. 

Aziraphale puts hands on either side of Crowley’s hips. “I want your cock first,” Aziraphale says darkly. He grinds his hips into Crowley’s own. 

The demon gasps against him. “Angel-” he begins, but is cut off when Aziraphale kisses him. Oh, Aziraphale has missed this. Has ached for this. For the feel of Crowley’s lips under his own, the soft keening noise Crowley makes as Aziraphale slides his hand into his hair. 

Aziraphale puts his arm around Crowley’s waist and quickly, expertly reverses their positions. He’s thought exactly of how he would do this, and is inordinately pleased when this move works flawlessly. He grinds against Crowley, and Crowley lets out a mew of surprise. Aziraphale pulls back just enough to say, in an irritated tone, “Take those infernal glasses off, please.”

Crowley reaches up a shaking hand and pulls them off, before dropping them unceremoniously to the ground. Aziraphale closes his eyes and leans in, captures Crowley’s lips with his own again. This time he opens his mouth, licks at Crowley’s lips, then slides his tongue into the warm heat of Crowley’s mouth. He plunders Crowley’s mouth and Aziraphale feels Crowley’s stunned reaction.  _ Shocked, _ he thinks.  _ Scandalized. Is this really the angel you’ve known for over 5000 years? How you underestimate me, my dear.  _ Aziraphale was too relieved and overjoyed the last time he and Crowley were together. This time he intends to show Crowley just how much he wants the demon. How much he has wanted him. How he has yearned and ached and dreamed of this. In exquisite, explicit detail. 

His experience in kissing is entirely limited to his last experience with Crowley, but this human corporation must have some instincts because he’s not thinking about mechanics at all, and is entirely focused on how to get Crowley out of his clothes while he continues to slide his tongue against Crowley’s. Aziraphale pulls at Crowley’s jacket. Crowley comes to life, finally, arching his back, shrugging a shoulder and letting the jacket fall away. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s arms wrap around him, clutching at his coat, roaming his back in a desperate embrace. Aziraphale rolls his hips against Crowley’s again, is satisfied and a little relieved to feel the demon’s moan in his mouth. Aziraphale slides his hands up Crowley’s sides and down, down, down. One hand begins working on the buttons of his waistcoat. The other slides lower, over the tented fabric of Crowley’s breeches. 

Crowley breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth down the side of Aziraphale’s neck as the angel palms him through the fabric, tracing the outline of his cock. “Lovely,” Aziraphale breathes. He tilts his head back. His fingers press gently at the tip of Crowley’s cock through his trousers. “Ohh, so lovely, Crowley.” 

“ _ Mmm _ ,” Crowley says. His mouth slides up to Aziraphale’s ear and Aziraphale moans as Crowley sucks his earlobe. 

Aziraphale manages to free up all the buttons of Crowley’s waistcoat. He tries to shove it down Crowley’s arms, but Crowley uses his body to push Aziraphale backwards, using pressure from his hands to guide Aziraphale to the bedroom at the back of the flat. Crowley brings his mouth back up to kiss Aziraphale, his serpentine tongue licking and curling around the angel’s. Aziraphale lets himself be pushed and pulled and steps out of his shoes along the way, and they stumble into the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. 

Lazy afternoon sunlight peeks in through the edges of the drawn curtains in the bedroom. Crowley has pulled off Aziraphale’s jacket and waistcoat in the transition. Aziraphale has removed Crowley’s waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. They collapse sideways onto the large, plush bed, still kissing and pulling at each other’s clothes. Crowley works the buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt as he breaks the kiss again to tongue at the angel’s ear. 

“This is . . . oh. . .  _ oh _ . . . .quite the bed . . . for a modest flat,” Aziraphale purrs. He’s lost to sensation. Crowley’s teeth nibble his earlobe and Aziraphale feels his cock pulse. “Ohh . . . oh please-” 

“I like to sleep,” Crowley murmurs. “And no one sees my bedroom.” One of Crowley’s hands slides under Aziraphale’s shirt, stroking his skin and Aziraphale keens. “Angel, you taste so  _ good _ .” He licks the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, then slithers down to mouth at Aziraphale’s chest, that clever tongue drawing circles and working his way towards Aziraphale’s breeches. 

Aziraphale’s brain is working at half speed, and he’s just catching up to Crowley’s words from earlier.  _ No one sees his bedroom? _ “Surely. . . Oh  _ Crowley. . .  _ su- surely you’ve been with . . .  _ Ah _ . . . A human?”

“No,” Crowley whispers, lips mouthing the words against Aziraphale’s navel. Aziraphale sits up, looks down where Crowley kneels before him. Crowley’s hands are tugging gently at his breeches. “No one. There’s no one else I’ve wanted.”

Aziraphale bites his lip. A lie, then. Crowley lied to him last time. A lie he doesn’t remember telling, because Aziraphale erased it. Or is he lying now? “Are you . . .” Aziraphale begins, and then catches himself. He’s not supposed to know. There wasn’t supposed to  _ be _ a last time because he should have made himself forget. He had told Crowley he would make them both forget, and wasn’t it just so perfectly hypocritical of him to call out Crowley for lying when he was committing the sin of omission  _ right now _ ? 

His erection flags as he spirals into his guilt. His face must give away the internal debate going on, because when Crowley looks up at him he stops his ministrations, confused. “Aziraphale?” he asks. The hands that were pulling at his trousers still and flatten against his thighs. “Does that bother you? That I haven’t been with . . . with anyone?” 

Aziraphale can hear shame in Crowley’s voice. His breath catches and he feels a lump in his throat. He is desperate to correct the mistake that Crowley is making. “Oh, no, no, love, no,” he assures, then freezes because he realizes what he’s said. 

Crowley realizes it, too. “Did you-- did you just-”

_ You’ll never remember this. It doesn’t have to haunt you and hurt you. You will  _ **_never_ ** _ remember. And neither will he.  _ Aziraphale smiles, feels tears come to his eyes. He covers Crowley’s hands with his own. “I love you,” he says softly. “Oh Crowley, how very much I love you.” 

Crowley makes a whining noise in the back of his throat that sounds a little like pain. Then he surges forward, covering Aziraphale’s body with his own. His mouth claims Aziraphale’s in a fiery kiss. He tugs at Aziraphale’s breeches and the angel scoots back up onto the bed, lifts his hips to let Crowley tug both breeches and hose down and off. Aziraphale pulls his open shirt off. He reaches to untie his cravat, but Crowley grabs it with a fist and uses it to pull the angel’s lips back to his own. “Leave it,” Crowley begs against his mouth. “You beautiful thing. I like being able to get a handle on you.” 

Aziraphale smirks into the kiss. Maybe there’s a part of Crowley that does remember, somewhere deep inside. As much as he doesn't want Crowley to have spent the past ten years suffering as he has, the thought that their previous encounter had no lasting effect had disturbed him greatly. He wanted some mark on Crowley, something to claim him. He hooks a leg over Crowley, his erection hard again, and rubs himself against the bulge in Crowley’s trousers. 

Crowley breaks the kiss to moan into Aziraphale’s mouth. “Angel, please . . .”

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers. Crowley makes that noise again, and Aziraphale feels Crowley’s cock twitch. He smiles, slow and satisfied. “You like that,” he accuses softly. 

Crowley runs his hands over all the exposed skin available to him, over Aziraphale’s shoulders, his back, through the smattering of white blond hair on his chest. “I want to feel you,” he says. “Feel all of you, every inch.”

The words echo in Aziraphale’s ears. Same as the last time. Aziraphale pushes thoughts of last time away. There is only this time, only now, only Crowley’s hands on his skin and his body pressed up against him. Aziraphale begins to work the buttons on Crowley’s shirt free, but Crowley snaps his fingers and the fabric disappears. Aziraphale looks down and sees that Crowley is completely naked now. He arches his hips and grinds their erections together, moaning at the feel. “Ohh you feel wonderful, dear.”

Crowley’s hand slides down over Aziraphale’s belly, and the demon follows it with his mouth. “Aziraphale,” Crowley pants against his skin. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” Aziraphale does. Aziraphale remembers how Crowley told him this the last time. He puts all his thoughts away. When this is over, Crowley will take care of him, and he will never have to hurt like this again. One more first time. And then never again. 

“My darling,” Aziraphale says. He pushes all the thoughts of what must come after out of his mind and tries to focus solely on the present. On the here and now, on Crowley in his arms, Crowley’s mouth on his skin. This is what he’s yearned for, for ten years, the longest decade of his extremely long life, and now it’s finally his once again. 

Said mouth is trailing down into the soft delicate skin of Aziraphale’s inner thigh. Crowley’s head is inches away from Aziraphale’s straining erection. Crowley digs his teeth into the skin gently. Aziraphale gasps at the pleasure-pain sensation. “Ohh, lovely, my dear, my darling. . .” He gives a low moan and then bucks his hips gently, turning so his cock rubs against the side of Crowley’s face. 

Crowley releases the bruised and tender flesh, turning his head. His serpentine tongue flicks out, impossibly long, to flutter at the head of Aziraphale’s cock teasingly. “What do you want, angel? Do you want this?” He leans closer and presses a soft closed mouth kiss to the engorged organ beside him. 

“Ohh,” Aziraphale moans. Crowley opens his mouth and begins to press a series of warm wet kisses to Aziraphale’s cock. “Oh, Crowley, no, please, I want-” he gasps as Crowley removes his mouth. The demon’s eyes flick up to catch Aziraphale’s. The heat Aziraphale can see there makes his cock throb. “I want you inside me.”

Crowley sucks in an audible breath. “Angel,” he says. 

Aziraphale thinks Crowley might be backing out of it, might not want it that way this time (their  _ only _ time he reminds himself fiercely), so he says, “If you . . . if you want.. . “

Crowley scrambles up Aziraphale’s body, puts both hands on the side of the angel’s head. “Are you daft?” he asks. “Of course I want.” He kisses Aziraphale again, rolls his hips to grind their cocks together. “Sometimes I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted in my life.” 

“Take me, Crowley, please,” Aziraphale moans. He lifts his hips up, hands scrabbling at Crowley’s sides, pulling him closer. Crowley’s hand drifts between their bodies, teasing and pressing into the skin around Aziraphale’s hole. Aziraphale gasps. “Please,” he begs. 

Crowley snaps his fingers and Aziraphale feels himself all at once loose and slick. Wet drips and coats the underside of his arse. Then Crowley puts a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, lifts it up and at the same point slides his cock into Aziraphale’s arse. 

Aziraphale’s back arches off the bed, and he shouts. His hands grip the bedsheets. 

Crowley feels huge and hot inside him, a slight ache even through the miraculous preparation Crowley had given him. But it’s a pleasant burn that becomes even more pleasant when Crowley shifts gently inside him. “All right, angel?” he asks. His chest is heaving as if he’s been running. He bites his lip. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale manages. “Yes, better . . . feels . . .”

“So good,” Crowley completes the thought. “You feel so good around my cock. Oh, Angel, I want . . . can I move . . .”

Aziraphale whines. “Yes, please, please.”

Crowley slowly brings his hips back and then forth. He tips his head back and gives a guttural moan. Aziraphale admires the long column of Crowley’s neck. Crowley’s fingers are digging into his thigh. The angle is awkward, and Crowley leans back and grabs Aziraphale’s other thigh. Aziraphale conforms to the demon’s ministrations, letting his body be pulled and contorted. He ends up with his knees up around his elbows. Crowley lowers his torso, bringing them almost face to face, and he begins to thrust in earnest. 

Aziraphale feels like his head is swimming. Crowley is hitting a point inside him on every second thrust that makes him cry out, “Oh,  _ oh, oh _ .”

“Aziraphale, I love you too,” Crowley moans. “Oh angel, I love you, I love you.” 

Aziraphale can feel his orgasm building. “Crowley, I’m close. I need you. . .”

“I’ve got you,” Crowley says. He lets go of one thigh, brings his hand up to his mouth and licks his palm, then reaches between them. He gently fingers Aziraphale’s ballsac and then slides his slick hand up to firmly grasp Aziraphale’s aching cock. 

Aziraphale sees stars. “Oh my love,” he moans. Crowley’s hand grips him harder, moving up and down in time with each thrust of his cock into Aziraphale’s arse. 

“Come for me,” Crowley pants. 

“Yes,  _ yes _ ,” Aziraphale responds. His whole body tingles and then he comes with a desperate wail. “ _ Ahh… _ ”

Crowley is still pounding into him, and Aziraphale feels his body convulse, then hears Crowley’s moan, feels the hot spurt of him inside. 

Crowley’s hips stutter a few more times and come to a stop. Aziraphale’s legs slide down to either side of Crowley’s hips. The demon’s cock slips free, and he collapses with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale brings his arms up and wraps them around Crowley, stroking and squeezing. He presses tiny kisses into Crowley’s hairline, and feels, for the first time in ten years, like his appetite has finally been sated. He sighs contentedly, plays with one of Crowley’s carefully styled curls that has escaped its hold. 

“Oh my dear,” he says, his heartbeat slowing down. “That was-”

“Not over,” Crowley mumbles. 

“What, darling?” Aziraphale cranes his neck. 

Crowley turns so his chin rests on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and uses the lacy cravat to pull Aziraphale’s lips to his own in a wet open-mouthed kiss. “I want to make you come again.” 

* * *

Hours later, Crowley is still loath to leave Aziraphale’s side, so he miracles the bottle of champagne and two glasses to the bedside table. Aziraphale chuckles. “Lazy serpent,” he teases. He presses a gentle kiss to Crowley’s shoulder, and then gets up on his hands and knees, reaching for the bottle. Crowley pulls the angel into his lap, runs his hands over those plush, luscious thighs. He traces the mark he left on Azirapahle’s skin and feels his cock stir at the thought.  _ Mine,  _ Crowley thinks posessively.  _ For me. _ He revels in the feel of Aziraphale’s skin under his fingertips. Aziraphale leans down to kiss him, just a gentle, quick press of mouths. “Let me have at least one glass, dear, then I’ll be up for another round.” 

Crowley grabs the cravat around Aziraphale’s neck, and pulls him gently down again for a kiss that’s slower, longer, deeper. “Soon,” he requests. “Please.” He releases Aziraphale and the angel pulls back a fraction. 

“Yes, my love,” Aziraphale says. Crowley thrills to hear the words out of the angel’s mouth. Aziraphale sits up and pours them both a glass of champagne. He hands one to Crowley and wiggles a little before he climbs off the demon’s lap. 

Crowley hums appreciatively. “I love the way you feel against me,” he says. 

Aziraphale smiles cheekily at him and then sits back and relaxes onto the pile of pillows at the top of the headboard. He puts a hand behind his head, uses the other to bring his glass to his lips and take a sip. “Oh, that’s wonderful.” 

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees, not talking about the champagne at all. Crowley sits up, takes a sip anyway. It  _ is _ a good vintage. “So . . “ Crowley begins. 

Aziraphale brings the glass down by his hip, a half smile on his face. “Yes?”

“You never told me . . . what brought this on?”

A crease appears in the middle of Aziraphale’s forehead. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley sips his champagne again. “Back at the restaurant. I asked you what brought this on. . .why . . . why you decided now, and here, in the middle of a bloody revolution to . . .”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows are raised. “To . .. “

“To make your move. On me,” Crowley says haltingly. “To suggest that we . . . become lovers,” he says, for lack of a better phrase. He feels a rush of blood to his face at the word. It’s one thing to shout it in the height of passion (even though he absolutely had meant it), but it’s quite another to say the word calmly, easily. He doesn’t know if another demon has ever fallen in love. But he imagines that they would have felt as awkward about the word as he does. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He titters like he’s nervous, and Crowley feels a rush of sympathy. He would never have been brave enough to suggest such a thing to Aziraphale. Maybe talking about this new aspect of their . . .relationship . . .makes him just as uncomfortable. It is, strangely, a comforting thought. “Well,” Aziraphale begins. “Like I said, it’s not a new thing. I’ve . . . I’ve felt this way about you for a very long time, you know.”

“How long?” Crowley asks. Because he really wants to know. Because he can’t remember a time that he  _ didn’t _ want Aziraphale. 

“Well. . . a long time.” Aziraphale drains his champagne glass. 

Crowley can feel that he’s making Aziraphale uncomfortable. He runs a finger up Aziraphale’s calf. “I like you in hose,” he says idly. “Nothing on togas, though.” He smiles with one corner of his mouth. “How many times I thought about you in those togas. So much easier to access than all these fussy coats and shirts and overcoats and trousers . . . 

Aziraphale giggles. “The humans do seem to be adding a lot of layers to things lately. Modesty is overrated in my opinion.” 

“Absolutely.” 

Aziraphale smiles, sets his glass aside. He looks nervous again. “Crowley did you . . . did you mean what you said?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Of course. You look stunning in hose.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s calf. “All these beautiful curves . . .”

“No, that’s . . . that’s not what I meant.”

Crowley looks up from where he’s worshipping Aziraphale’s knee. 

Aziraphale licks his lips. Crowley wants to chase his tongue with his own. “I meant . . . I meant the things you said while we were . . . becoming carnally acquainted.” 

Crowley chuckles. “You mean while we were fucking?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a little pink, but . . . oh, his cock seems to be interested. Crowley files that information away in his head. Dirty talk. Check. 

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley takes pity on the angel. He was the brave one who came out with all the messy feelings first. The one who made the first move. “Yes,” he says softly. “I haven't wanted anyone else except you . . . and . . . I love you.” 

Tension leaves Aziraphale’s body in an instant, and Crowley can see tears in his eyes. “Oh, Crowley.” The angel surges forward, captures Crowley’s lips in a kiss. He pulls back, resting their foreheads together and says, “I love you, my dear. I love you so very much.” 

“Show me?” Crowley asks. He lets go of his champagne glass, which spills onto the floor.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says against his mouth. “The champagne-“

“I have more,” Crowley breathes against his mouth. 

“Oh good,” Aziraphale says between kisses. “Because I definitely want more champagne.”

Crowley pulls back, raising an eyebrow. Aziraphale gives him a lascivious look. “But first I want you to fuck me again.” His cheeks turn pink and Crowley feels his heart beat a little faster. 

Crowley’s grin is slow and lazy. He leans in and licks Aziraphale’s lips teasingly. Aziraphale hums his appreciation. “I can do that, angel.” 

* * *

When dawn is approaching, when they are done, when they are mostly redressed and sneaking glances and tentative smiles at each other, Aziraphale proposes that Crowley be the one to perform the miracle and make them both forget. He leaves the words  _ ‘this time _ ’ off the sentence. 

“What? What do you mean you want me to miracle away our memories?” Crowley says, irritated and offended. “You didn’t seem to be complaining when I had my cock up your arse.” 

Aziraphale bristles. “It has nothing to do with the quality of our . . . relations,” he says delicately. He reaches out for Crowley, pulls him into a kiss. “You were wonderful,” he whispers against the demon’s lips. 

Crowley chases the kiss, lets his hands roam over Aziraphale’s clothed body. Aziraphale moans a little when one of Crowley’s hands slides down to cup his arse. “Let me have you again,” Crowley says, his voice low and husky. “Please, angel.” He slides a hand into the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers, his mouth under Aziraphale’s jaw. “I’ll make it so good for you, you’ll never want to forget.” He pulls Aziraphale’s hips into his own. “ _ I  _ never want to forget.” 

“Crowley. . . “ Aziraphale breathes. He can feel himself getting hard again. He swallows. “Crowley, please.” 

“Anything you want,” Crowley says against his skin. He’s dipping his tongue under the lacy cravat, gently nibbling. “Do you want it the other way round? I’ll let you fuck me, angel. I  _ want _ you to fuck me.” 

Aziraphale has a very vivid memory of the last time he fucked Crowley. He remembers how hot and slick Crowley was. He remembers the press of their bodies together. He remembers Crowley’s gasp of pleasure as he came. Crowley does not have these memories. Aziraphale erased them. Aziraphale was supposed to erase the memory from his own mind. He did not. This is why he wants Crowley to perform the miracle. That’s why he has to convince him to do it. 

“No,” Aziraphale says in a strangled voice. Crowley’s hands still. He pulls back to look at the angel. “Crowley, it’s not that I don’t want . . . that. I do, but I don’t think . . I mean . . . you’re a demon and I’m an angel.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I think we established that somewhere around the time of Adam and Eve.” He tilts his head, like a new thought has just occurred to him. He swallows. “Is it because of what you said?” 

Aziraphale is shocked. “What? No! No, absolutely not.”

“I could understand if you wanted to forget it. If you . . . if you wanted  _ me _ to forget it.” 

“Crowley, I-” Aziraphale stops. “I don’t  _ want _ to forget that. I don’t want  _ you _ to forget it. I meant it. I love you.” 

Crowley breathes heavily through his nose. He kneads at the flesh of Aziraphale’s arse. Aziraphale swallows thickly. “Then I’m not sure what you’re upset about,” Crowley says in a low voice.

“Crowley, we can’t.”

Crowley licks a path up to Aziraphale’s ear. “We did.” 

“We shouldn’t have!”

His tongue traces the rim of the angel’s ear. “We did.”

If Crowley bites his earlobe, Aziraphale is absolutely going to lose it and let Crowley fuck him through the mattress. Again. “This can never happen again!”

He stops, pulling his head back and away from the ear. Crowley doesn’t have a response. Aziraphale wishes fervently that he did. He wants Crowley to talk him out of this. He wishes he could talk  _ himself _ out of it. Instead, Crowley is pulling away, removing his hand from Aziraphale’s arse (although not without a long slow slide over the curve). “Crowley, this can’t . . this can’t be.  _ We _ can’t be. What we’re doing, with the Arrangement, it’s dangerous enough. You said yourself if your people found out that you rescued an angel-”

“Yeah,” Crowley says tightly. He lets his hands fall to his sides. He takes a step back from Aziraphale and sits on the rumpled bed. “It would be very bad. If they found out about this,” he waves his hand back and forth to encompass the space between them, “I would be in a lot of trouble.” He looks up at Aziraphale, sighs. “I imagine you would, too.”

Aziraphale nods, swallows thickly. He thought it hurt the first time. The second time is so much worse. He’s not sure he’s strong enough to do it a third time. And he does not trust himself. The last time he was supposed to wipe away his own memory and when he tried . . . he couldn’t. He didn’t  _ want _ to. He has to take the choice away from himself. “Yes. I’m not sure what they would do to me. I haven’t-- I mean, I haven’t Fallen, so-”

“Oh, they’ve got other punishments besides Falling, angel,” Crowley says. “A traitor, that’s what you’d be.” He pulls at the wreck of his hair. “They wouldn’t release you to Hell, same as Hell wouldn’t release me to Heaven. Too many secrets we might spill.” 

Aziraphale sits down next to Crowley on the bed. “It’s safer, Crowley.” He takes Crowley’s hand and interlaces their fingers, squeezing. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

“How would it be different than the Arrangement?” Crowley starts. “We could-- we could just continue on as we have been, couldn’t we? Just like things are normal?”

“Crowley.”

“Angel, listen, we don’t ever have to do this again. I can pretend that it never happened-”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale admits. His voice cracks and there are tears in his eyes. “Oh Crowley, please, don’t ask me to do that. To have you and then not,” he swallows, “I don’t think I can bear it.” He knows he can’t. That’s why he’s back here. That’s why this happened.  _ Again _ . “Crowley, I  _ love _ you, you know what that’s like for an angel.” 

Crowley doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, because Aziraphale knows that he does. Five thousand years and they’ve talked it all over. Heaven, Hell, the Fall. Crowley remembers love. He might even feel it. But not the way an angel loves. The purest and truest human love-- the kind of love written about by the great poets and writers-- is like a microscopic bread crumb-- too small for even a mouse. Aziraphale’s love, by comparison, is like a seven course meal, and he’s been starving himself for ten years. 

Crowley swallows and clears his throat. “All right then, angel, I understand.” He grips Aziraphale’s fingers tightly. “I don’t like it,” he whispers fiercely, “but I will do it.” 

Aziraphale holds his tears in. He has spent so much time in the past ten years yearning, weeping, loving so painfully. He doesn’t want to cry anymore. “Thank you,” he says. His voice breaks. “Thank you.” 

Crowley turns to look Aziraphale in the eyes. He leans forward and presses a soft, gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s mouth. “Thank you,” he whispers against the angel’s lips. 

* * *

Aziraphale startles awake. He gasps like he’s been held underwater, his arms flying out and knocking over an empty champagne bottle. It rolls off the small round table in Crowley’s sitting room and falls to the carpeted floor with a dull thud that makes him grunt in pain. His head  _ hurts _ . He forces his eyes to blink, but they won’t both come up at the same time, giving him incomplete flashes of the room in front of him. He has a foul taste in the back of his throat. His breathing a little more under control, he forces both his eyes open. He is in Crowley’s sitting room in his flat, sprawled in one of the chairs. Empty champagne bottles litter the room. Hangover. He must have forgotten to sober up and . . . fallen asleep? That doesn’t sound right. Aziraphale clears his throat and miracles away the pain in his head. 

It doesn’t work. 

He concentrates, snaps his fingers. The pain lessens a fraction, but it’s still there. Disturbed, he focuses on the champagne bottle on the floor. He snaps his fingers and it rights itself, but the pain in his head remains. He rubs his eyes blearily. Maybe because he fell asleep? He’s never fallen asleep before. Not once in all this time. Maybe this is what it feels like when you sleep? If so, Aziraphale is never doing it again. Why on Earth would Crowley do this all the time? His temples throb. Crowley would know.

The thought of Crowley makes him turn his head. The other chair is empty, but he feels a strange weight on the back of his neck. He reaches a hand up and feels warm scales. He scowls. “Crowley!” he admonishes. “You know I hate when you do that.” 

The demon has transformed himself into a snake, and curled himself around Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale grunts and lifts his hands to gently tap the snake. He knows better than to startle Crowley. A startled snake squeezes. “Crowley, wake up and get off me.” He feels a serpentine tongue tickle the back of his ear and he giggles and then groans when that sets off a whole new wave of pain. He feels Crowley slither down his arm, onto the floor, where his body grows until he is back in his human corporation. He is kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet, his hair loose about his shoulders, wearing his black peasant clothes. His sunglasses are perched on the end of his nose. His face looks tense and drawn. “Everything all right, angel?” 

Aziraphale swallows and blinks hard. “I think I fell asleep,” he says. “I feel awful.” 

“How so?”

“My head is aching, dear boy. Oh, is this what it’s always like when you wake up after you go to sleep? I don’t think I can cope with this.” 

One corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches. “I don’t think it’s from sleeping, angel.” 

“Oh, I am stiff all over from this chair. Crowley, why didn’t you wake me?”

Crowley bites his lower lip and lets it slowly roll out between his teeth. There is something so familiar about that. Aziraphale feels a wave of deja vu. It makes him slightly nauseous. “Well,” Crowley says, “I was tired. Needed a kip myself, and you do know how I like-”

“Yes,” Aziraphale rolls his eyes, and winces at the spike of pain. “A nice warm place to curl up.” 

“Demon,” Crowley reminds him. Then, he says, “Why don’t you just miracle the pain away?”

“I tried that when I first woke up, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Let me,” Crowley says. He snaps his fingers. Aziraphale takes a deep breath that is suddenly so much stronger and clearer than all the others before it. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling the pain in his head dissipate. It’s like drinking a glass of ice cold water on a hot day: cool, sweet relief. “Oh thank you, that was exactly what I needed.” 

Crowley smiles at him, and . . . Aziraphale thinks the smile looks a bit sad. “Don’t thank me, remember?”

Aziraphale jolts. “Yes, sorry, I know you said . . . if anyone from your side found out . . .”

Crowley nods. “Just so, angel.” He reaches out and pats Aziraphale’s knee. Aziraphale startles at the intimacy of the touch, and Crowley snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned. “I feel a bit hungover myself, fancy breakfast?”

Aziraphale gives him a sad smile. “Best not. We-” he tries to remember what happened last night. His head throbs painfully again, and he winces. “We spent yesterday afternoon eating crepes and then drinking champagne all night.” The pain in his head soothes, but the words feel strange in his mouth, like they’re not quite his, but more like lines he’s reading from a page in a book. He feels a quick stab of pain again and then the thought leaves him. Sweet relief rushes in. “My goodness, that made my head hurt. I don’t think I’ve ever passed out from drinking, what vintage was that?” 

Crowley’s mouth twitches. “Not sure. I stole it from the Duke of Archer last time we were there.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens in surprise. “You did not!”

Crowley chuckles. “He’ll never miss it.” He stands suddenly. “Best you be off, then. Back to London to finish getting things ready for your shop.” 

Aziraphale feels a little . . . hurt at the dismissal. Like he expected a different reaction. There’s that feeling of deja vu again. “Yes, I should.” 

  
  


* * *

After Aziraphale leaves, Crowley goes to bed. He curses himself for being weak and a fool as he rubs his face against the pillows to smell Aziraphale’s lingering scent. 

_ You will forget this, _ he’d told the angel.  _ As far as you know, we have never had sex. You will forget that you love me. We spent yesterday afternoon eating crepes and then drinking champagne all night, nothing more.  _ Aziraphale had looked at him with blank, sad eyes.  _ Go to sleep,  _ he’d said.  _ When you wake up, you won’t remember any of this.  _

Crowley thinks Aziraphale is lucky. He knows these memories are dangerous. But he doesn’t try to remove them. He pulls the blanket over him, pretends it’s Aziraphale’s arms. He remembers how good it felt to curl up against Aziraphale’s skin. He remembers the look of ecstasy in Aziraphale’s eyes. He remembers Aziraphale saying _ I love you. _ There’s no way he will forget that. 

He does forget the love bite he pressed into the angel’s inner thigh. Aziraphale doesn’t notice it until he’s back in London. 


	2. London, 1783

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [chewb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb) for beta'ing this for me!
> 
> Also.... I think I'm going to expand this to 5 chapters. . . . and I can't tell a story in a linear fashion, so we're going back in time in this chapter . . .
> 
> And I'm using he/him pronouns for Crowley and Aziraphale, even though they'll be switching genders.

##  1783, London

“What are  _ you _ doing  _ here _ ?” a familiar voice accuses. 

Crowley’s mouth tilts up in a half smile. “Angel,” he says, turning. He drops a curtsy, fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly to hide the once over he gives Aziraphale. The angel is too pretty by half tonight. His obviously brand new shoes are a shiny cream color. White hose cling to his calves and fitted cream breeches trimmed with gold make love to those glorious thighs. His waistcoat is a mix of gold and cream, and it hugs the soft, slight curve of his belly. Around his neck he wears a froth of white lace that matches almost exactly the white-blond curls of his short hair…. Not that Crowley can see them because Aziraphale is wearing last year’s fashion, an atrocious powdered wig. It is slightly too large for his head, too powdered, and it ruins the entire effect. And Crowley had been about to compliment the angel’s high fashion standards. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

The ballroom at Sir Anthony Melliston’s home is lavish. Beautiful cream and dark pink wallpaper adorns the room and highly polished wooden floorboards shine in the candlelight. The room is packed with London society’s richest at their most elegant. Jewels flash in the candlelight. Servants walk by with glittering crystal flutes full of champagne. The ball is in full swing now, music soaring, guests gossiping and laughing. The doors to the veranda are open to relieve the heat and press of the crowd, even though it is well into October. 

“Nor I, you,” Aziraphale counters. He pauses, then bows politely, remembering his manners. “You look lovely,” he says, then bites his lip, as if he’s wishing he could take the statement back. 

Crowley flutters his black lace fan proudly. “Thank you.” He takes satisfaction in the tinge of pink coming to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “It’s quite a bit of work putting this outfit together.” It  _ had _ been. Even with a demonic miracle to get him in and out, he had still had to think up and make choices about all the different pieces of fabric that came together to make his ensemble: petticoats, pannier, stays, stomacher, gown, and then everything under it (just in case the need arose… or rather, in case some human’s need arose) . . chemise, stockings, garters, pockets . . . it really was  _ work _ , honestly. And just to look like he’d put on a big red dress with some nice black lace! Although he did have to admit that the stays made his meager breasts look  _ fantastic _ . 

“Aren’t you hot under all those layers?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I could say the same for you. Wigs are going out of fashion, angel.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Certainly not!” He touches the top of his wig self consciously. “It’s still perfectly standard.”

“As long as your standard is to look like stuffy old men like Sir Melliston.”

“I take it you are here for some other purpose, then?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley smiles and closes his fan abruptly. “I take it  _ you  _ are here for Sir Melliston. Pity you stood me up at our lunch date last month, we could have traded notes and perhaps only one of us would have had to come.”

“I knew you would be cross about that,” Aziraphale mutters.

“Who said anything about being cross?”

“I didn’t want to cancel, you know. It is always nice to see you.” He colors, realizing what he has said, “I mean, I like you-“ Aziraphale looks at his feet. “What I meant to say was that I don’t find your company unpleasant.”

Crowley’s smile grows wider. He loves when the angel gets all flustered. He knows Aziraphale has feelings for him. Knows that he even has feelings of a carnal nature (not that Aziraphale would ever act on them). Downside of being an angel . . . all that heavenly love and no place for it to go . . . it’s a great way to tease him. “That’s a long way round to asking if we are still friends after you stood me up.”

“Are we?”

Crowley slides his glasses down a fraction of an inch to peek at Aziraphale over the rims. “If you think you can dare stoop to befriend a demon, oh most holy celestial being.”

“Crowley! I’m trying to apologize and you’re mocking-“

Crowley makes a sad face. “Am I ruining your confession? Catholicism’s gone out of style, too . . . a lot longer than the wigs.”

Aziraphale huffs. “You are in a truly wretched mood, my dear. What ever is the matter?”

Crowley purses his lips. Aziraphale might not know the maddening signals his body gives off, but he is laser focused on the soft emotional underbelly that Crowley doesn’t like to think too much about. That way, for him, lies all the things he cannot have, and thus . . . madness. He hails a passing servant with another glass of champagne. He fluffs out his pannier and then delicately sits on one of the expensive velvet-lined chairs that line the room. Aziraphale gestures to the chair next to him and Crowley waves a hand dismissively for the angel to sit. 

“I’ve been trying to complete this assignment for two weeks, angel, and this stuffy old codger will barely give me the time of day, much less listen to my thoughts on his intimate affairs.”

“A work problem?” Aziraphale asks, his tone brightening. “Oh, well maybe we can help each other then.” The wig slips a little. Aziraphale pushes it back into place. 

Crowley gives Aziraphale a measured look. “You’re having trouble, too?”

Aziraphale nods sympathetically. “This assignment is proving most difficult, Crowley. I’ve been buttering up Sir Anthony for weeks. It took quite a number of miraculous business dealings and chance meetings for me to get an invitation to this. And then I’ve had to learn so much about blasted horse races and poker and cigars, and diamond mines and all manner of things that I have almost no interest in. It’s quite dull.”

Crowley nods sympathetically. “Greed is one of the most commonplace and boring human vices. Even the humans have to think up elaborate schemes to make it interesting.” He sips his champagne, sees Aziraphale giving it a longing look. A snap of his fingers and a second glass appears in Crowley’s other hand. He offers it to the angel.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, taking it with a grateful smile. “It is very warm in here.”

Crowley glances at the sheen of sweat on Aziraphale’s forehead. “Might be cooler if you took that ridiculous wig off.” 

Aziraphale scowls. “Will you please refrain from commenting on my attire?” 

“Aziraphale, you are, quite literally, the only man here wearing a wig. You’re not in court, you’re at a party.” 

“I’m trying to look serious.” 

“Is that the issue with Sir Melliston? He doesn’t take you seriously?”

Aziraphale takes a large drink from his champagne glass and sighs. “I really don’t know, Crowley.” 

“Well, what are you trying to convince him to do?”

Aziraphale blushes and looks a bit embarrassed. “It’s a delicate situation, my dear.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, finishes his champagne and waits. 

Aziraphale looks at his hands and is silent. 

Crowley raises both eyebrows now. “Well?” he asks, irritated. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“It . . . uhm. . . it is rather scandalous.” 

Crowley smiles. “Ooh, I love a bit of gossip, go on.” 

Aziraphale hesitates again, but then he leans closely and says in a low voice, “I’m to get him to abandon his wife.” 

Crowley blinks. “What? Really?” 

Aziraphale nods, his brows furrowing worriedly. “Yes, my dear.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Why would Heaven want someone to do that?”

“Well things are a bit different now than they used to be,” Aziraphale says. 

“That’s news to me.”

“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” 

Crowley snorts. “If you’re going to be a bastard, I’ll leave you to it.” He goes to stand, but Aziraphale reaches a hand out and touches his arm lightly. Crowley looks down at Aziraphale’s hand and Aziraphale snatches it back, but Crowley sits anyway. 

“I am sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale apologizes. “This is . . . this is not a situation that I’ve ever found myself in. It’s been very trying for me. It’s not right of me to take it out on you.” 

Crowley glances around, and then snaps his fingers to refill his champagne glass. In the kitchen, the butler looks in consternation at the empty glass that he was sure he just filled. In the ballroom, Crowley re-arranges his pannier discreetly and sips at the champagne. “S’all right,” he says moodily. “I’m not a ray of sunshine myself tonight.”

Azirphale chuckles. “Well, my dear, you are a demon.” 

Crowley snorts and takes another drink of his champagne. “So you’re supposed to try to make Sir Melliston leave his wife?”

Aziraphale nods slowly. “This is one of the strangest orders I’ve ever received. And Gabriel was no help at all!” 

“You went to Gabriel?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I wasn’t sure what else to do. I’ve never had an assignment like this. He is my direct supervisor, after all.”

“And how did that turn out for you?” 

Aziraphale grimaces. “It went down . . .what is that charming phrase you taught me in the Garden? Like a lead bayou?”

“Lead balloon,” Crowley corrects.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, well, going to Gabriel was like that. Although what exactly is a lead balloon?”

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno really, just a saying I picked up somewhere. Probably when I was an angel.”

Aziraphale frowns. “But then why don’t I know it? I am an angel still!”

“Could have been hell, I suppose,” Crowley says idly. “Although they don’t have much imagination there. Why I was stuck with this awful assignment to begin with.” 

“What  _ is _ your assignment?” 

Crowley smiles wryly. “Guess, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and his mouth forms a perfect little o of surprise. “No! You’re not-”

Crowley reaches over and lightly clicks their glasses together. “Yes, indeed I am. I am supposed to make sure that Sir Melliston  _ doesn’t _ leave his wife.”

Aziraphale looks out over the sea of dancing and drinking humans. “Do you think things may have gotten mixed up?”

“Mixed up?”

“Maybe your orders were sent to me and mine were sent to you?”

Crowley chuckles. “I can’t imagine Dagon making a mistake like that. Besides, what are the odds that it would be sent to  _ you _ and  _ me _ out of all the angels and demons?” 

Aziraphale nods. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“So you’re trying to get him to leave his wife and I’m trying to get him to stay with her. One of our head offices is going to end up unhappy.” 

“Mr. Fell!” a voice interrupts. 

Aziraphale blanches. “Oh, Sir Melliston!” 

Sir Anthony Melliston, a tall rotund man in his mid-sixties, stands before them. He wears a high, white powdered wig, light green coat and matching breeches. His waistcoat is black, and his cravat extravagantly full, although tied much too tightly. His jowls hang over the fabric like fleshy ruffles. His black shoes are extremely shiny (although still much more practical than Aziraphale’s outrageous sparkly numbers). His green eyes gleam in the light, and his sweaty face is very, very red. Crowley can smell the alcohol on him. “Here you are, chap. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Some of the lads want to teach me a new card game called Macao. I know how keen you are on Twenty-One, so I said I have to find you.” 

Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s reticence at the idea of spending an evening playing cards. Time to up the ante. He smiles up at Sir Melliston. “Sir Melliston,” he interrupts boldy, fluttering his lashes. “I’ve played Macao before, I would be happy to teach you and your lady wife.” 

Melliston looks at Crowley, his brow furrowing. Crowley can almost see the question marks swirling around the man’s head. “I’m afraid you have me at an advantage, Miss-”

Crowley’s smile grows wider. “Miss Crowley. I believe you know my brother, Mister Crowley.” Melliston does, because Crowley had originally met him as Mister Crowley, one of the ‘Independent Whigs’ looking to run a candidate for William Pitt, who Crowley had determined that Melliston admired quite a bit mostly because of his father. With his deep pockets, his ill-gained knighthood (rumour had it that it was given to him under duress because of an outstanding debt) and long history as a successful businessman, Melliston would be an ideal candidate: rich, ruthless, respected. Melliston had taken the bait, but Crowley hadn’t been able to get a handle on Melliston’s personal life, despite all his nudging. He knew Melliston had a wife, but Melliston was loath to discuss her any more than strictly necessary. Crowley had decided to change his appearance tonight in hopes of meeting the lady and getting more intel. “My brother invited me along to the party this evening,” Crowley says. 

“Your brother,” Melliston says slowly. He looks at Crowley very carefully. 

Crowley gives him a slightly flirtatious smile, because he’s a demon and he’s never been above using any unfair advantage. “Yes, we’re twins-- same eye affliction too, unfortunately.” 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Yes, the resemblance is remarkable.” 

Melliston’s eyes snap to Aziraphale. “You know the . . . Crowley twins, then?” 

“Mister Fell and I have been seeing each other for some time,” Crowley puts in. He reaches a gloved hand over and places it posessively on Aziraphale’s forearm. “I have high hopes for a happy union. There may be a chance for marital bliss even for a spinster like myself.” 

Melliston looks taken aback. “Oh, I . . . I suppose that is a possibility.” He looks dubiously at Aziraphale. What kind of reputation has the angel given himself with this man? Crowley wonders. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I believe you said something about a card game? With  _ the lads _ ?” he emphasizes pointedly. 

“Oh, please invite me along,” Crowley says, placing both his hands on Aziraphale’s forearm, and leaning close. He turns to look at Melliston and flutters his eyelashes again. “I do so want to meet your lady wife. We could be your good luck charms.” 

Aziraphale stiffens beside him and Melliston’s face grows stony. The change that comes over him is remarkable. All the joviality drains from his face, and he presses his lips into a thin line. “Yes, good luck charms, a very interesting notion. However, my wife is not here.”

“Oh?” Crowley asks genially. He ignores Aziraphale’s pointed throat clearing. “Is she abroad?” His wife being on tour without her husband would definitely raise a few eyebrows and strain a marriage. 

“No.”

Crowley’s smile doesn’t fade. Aziraphale reaches a hand over and meaningfully pats Crowley’s hands where they still clutch his forearm. “Visiting family, then?” Crowley removes one hand from Aziraphale’s arm, and goes to remove the other, but Aziraphale grips it tightly.  _ What on earth is going on with him?  _

“No.”

“Oh. Is she feeling unwell tonight?” Crowley fixes his face into an expression of sympathy. Aziraphale taps Crowley’s hand, but Crowley is not going to let Aziraphale’s prissy manners come between him and finally finishing this fucking awful mission so he can get back to drinking copiously and not giving a damn about politics. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Meliston says, pursing his lips. “You ask a lot of very forward questions,  _ miss _ . It is both uncouth and unbecoming.” 

“I only wish to get to know your wife, sir.” Aziraphale pinches Crowley’s finger.

Melliston’s face grows darker. “You do me great disrespect by not honoring my privacy.”

Crowley’s eyebrows knit, and he speaks before he can think. “Privacy! How is asking after your wife a matter of privacy? Did you have to marry her in secret?”

Melliston sneers. “I don’t like what you are implying, you impudent wretch!” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

Crowley purses his lips. “I don’t like stupid men who can’t answer simple questions and hide women away like they’re something to be ashamed of!” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale grunts through gritted teeth. “You don’t understand-” 

Melliston is speaking over him. “My wife  _ is _ something to be ashamed of, as are you!” His voice is getting louder and people are turning to look at them. “Yes, I cannot imagine why no man has deigned to ask for your hand in matrimony with a wicked tongue like that.” 

Aziraphale abandons decorum, clears his throat and stands. “Sir Melliston, certainly Miss Crowley’s humour can be a bit tawdry at times-”

“And you!” Melliston cuts him off. His eyes glitter with malice. “Is this what you meant when you expounded to me upon all the pleasures of bachelorhood? Spending your time with shameless church-bells like this?” 

They’re all talking over each other at once now. 

“ _ I’m _ shameless!” Crowley hoots. “You should look-”

“Sir Melliston!” Aziraphale says, affronted. “I admit Cro- Miss Crowley has put you in an uncomfortable position, but your language is-” 

Melliston snarls. “I would have thought you would have more-”

“-in a glass, you pompous sanctimonious-” 

“-not becoming a man of your position-”

“-sense than to cavort with  _ things _ like this creature-”

“-gib-faced ratbag!” 

“You do her a disgraceful rudeness-” 

“-disgusting creature, for whatever  _ it _ is-”

“You don’t know what kind of  _ thing _ -”

“And I will not stand by-”

“-it is certainly no lady!”

“-you’re dealing with!” 

“-and let you insult my friend!” 

Aziraphale reaches out, quite suddenly, and slaps Sir Melliston across the face. The crowd gathered around them is completely silent now, and even the musicians on the other side of the hall have stopped playing. 

Crowley’s mouth hangs open. 

Aziraphale looks equally shocked at his own behavior. The color drains from his face as surely as it rises in Melliston’s cheek. 

Melliston’s eyes are full of fury. “So, you want a duel, do you?” 

“No!” Aziraphale chokes. “No, not at all! I just- You were-“

“Yes, a duel it is,” Melliston says very calmly. “Three days’ time?”

Aziraphale swallows and shakes his head. “Sir, I do not want-“

“I do not care what you and this hedge-creeper want!” Melliston shouts. “You come into  _ my _ home, trespass on  _ my _ hospitality and  _ insult me  _ in the most vulgar manner. We shall have a duel, Mister Fell, because they will not call it murder when I slay you in the street the next time I see you!”

“Please let me apologize-“

“You can apologize to my pistol. I demand satisfaction!” Melliston roars. “In three days time— at 10 o’clock in the morning in St. James’s Park. Or I will send the magistrate after you! Now leave my home!”

Aziraphale is quiet. There isn’t anything he can say. He turns and leaves, eyes cast at the floor, his face scarlet. Crowley stands. He makes a rude gesture to Melliston, sticks his chin out defiantly at the gathered crowd, then follows Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Come find me 


	3. London, 1783

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are we going to do, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, startling him out of his lascivious thoughts. “I’ve never died before. I think it hurts.” He sounds nervous. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [chewb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb) for beta'ing this for me!
> 
> This picks up directly where Chapter 2 left off.

## 1783, London

Crowley, his eyes used to the dark, can see Aziraphale’s form, stiff and upright, halfway down the street when he bursts out of Sir Melliston’s home. “Angel!” he calls. Aziraphale doesn’t stop or look back. “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath. Two coachmen who are playing cards in the feeble light of an oil lamp pause what they’re doing to look at Crowley dubiously. Crowley sneers at them, and pulls his glasses down to let them see his snake eyes. He hisses a little as well, letting his forked tongue poke out slightly. The coachmen gasp and Crowley smiles wickedly before he hitches up his skirts and runs down the street, into the darkness, and after Aziraphale. Thunder rumbles in the distance. 

Aziraphale turns a corner and Crowley follows, running headlong into the angel, who has paused, waiting for him. His dark glasses slide off his face and clatter to the cobblestones as Aziraphale catches him roughly around the waist. Crowley’s hands clutch at his forearms to keep himself from stumbling. “What are you playing at!” Aziraphale demands. 

“What am  _ I _ playing at? What about you?!” Lightning flashes above. 

Aziraphale’s mouth is drawn in anger. “If you would have just listened to me, followed my cues-“

Crowley sputters. “I’m sorry, what cues would those be? Our Arrangement-”

“Shh!” Aziraphale hisses. He claps a hand over Crowley’s mouth and looks around suspiciously. Another rumble of thunder groans. 

Crowley rolls his eyes, sticks his tongue between Aziraphale’s fingers and smirks when the angel makes a noise and pulls his hand away.

“Crowley!” he complains. “How juvenile!”

“Better juvenile than raging adolescence. You just challenged our target to a duel over my honor!” The wind is beginning to pick up. Crowley’s skirts flutter around his ankles. 

Aziraphale’s jaw drops. “It was  _ not _ over your honor!”

Crowley smiles. “No need to be bashful, angel, I’m very flattered at your chivalrous nature. I should use my female form more often.” 

“It had nothing to do with that! He insulted you! I was. . . “ he trails off. 

Crowley suddenly becomes very aware of their proximity to each other, and the dark pressing in around them. He relaxes his grip on Aziraphale’s forearms, but Aziraphale keeps his arm around Crowley’s waist.  _ Interesting _ . High above the clouds, lightning flashes again. “You were what?” Crowley asks, his voice coming out softer and gentler than he intends. 

Aziraphale huffs. “Oh, all right, I  _ was _ defending you. But I would have done the same even if  _ Mister _ Crowley had been there.” He looks into Crowley’s eyes. “You’re my friend, Crowley. You didn’t deserve that abuse.” Crowley swallows hard and Aziraphale glances down and Crowley can see him recognize the intimate position they are in. The angel quickly pulls away. 

“Yeah, well, that’s all well and good, but now we’ve got a real problem on our hands-- how do we keep Melliston either married or not married if he’s dead?” Crowley asks. He puts his hands on his hips. 

Aziraphale looks horrified. “Why would he be  _ dead _ ?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Angel, he just challenged you to a duel.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean-”

“With  _ pistols _ .” 

“Still . . .” he trails off. Aziraphale looks down at the cobblestones. Wind blows dirt around their feet. “He doesn’t . . . he can’t . . .” He wrings his hands. “Oh, there must be some other way to get out of this!” He paces back and forth hurriedly, then he stops and looks up at Crowley. “I could lose.”

Crowley’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. “Lose? And what? Get discorporated?”

Aziraphale nods. “Discorporation is just that . . . I mean, there’ll be paperwork . . .”

Crowley scoffs. “That’s one way to put it. What are you going to write down when they ask how you were discorporated? Killed in a duel defending a demon? They won’t give you a body and I’ll be stuck on my own for who knows how many millenia.”

“I doubt it would be millenia,” Aziraphale says offhandedly. “I mean, I’ve had this body for almost 5800 years, you know. It is getting on. I’m sure I could . . . explain it.” He squares his shoulders and adjusts his cravat, like he’s about to meet with Gabriel immediately. 

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. “How?” he demands. “What could you possibly say that will explain why you were discorporated by your target?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t use that word,” Aziraphale says. He reaches up and scratches under his wig. The wig tilts slightly to the right. It looks even more ridiculous than it did in Melliston’s ballroom. “You make it sound like we’re going to shoot him.”

“One of us has to, or he is going to shoot you!” The thunder is louder now. 

“Well, I’m not killing anyone,” Aziraphale says primly. “I’m an angel, I can’t kill people!” He looks at Crowley. “You’ll have to think of something else.”

“Oh,  _ I _ have to, do I?” A brilliant streak of lightning illuminates Crowley’s astounded features. 

“Well, this is  _ your _ fault.”

“Excuse me, which one of us slapped him? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.”

“You provoked him!” The thunder is right on top of them now. The wind blows a curl from Aziraphale’s wig into his face and he bats it away like an insect. 

Crowley’s jaw drops. “I  _ what _ ?”

“You did! All those questions about his wife-”

“In case you forgot, angel, asking questions is  _ my job _ !”

Aziraphale fumes. “And apparently taking subtle hints is not! His wife is in Bedlam!”

Crowley makes a disgruntled noise. “Well . . . ” he trails off, and sighs heavily. He gives the nearest building a swift, solid kick. “Fuck.” 

The sky opens up and rain begins to pour down, as neatly as an overturned bucket. In a moment they are both soaked to the skin. 

“Come to mine,” Crowley shouts over the noise of the rain and the wind. He grabs Aziraphale’s arm and snaps his fingers before the angel can protest. 

In a moment they are in the front hall of Crowley’s rented townhome. Aziraphale wipes the rain from his eyes, and slides his wig off, examining it closely. “Oh, this is ruined!” he complains. 

Crowley smirks. “It looked terrible on you anyway.” He takes a moment to enjoy the way Aziraphale’s short white blond curls stick to his forehead. He thinks about running his fingers through the damp locks for only a second, before he clears his throat. “I think I have some clothes upstairs that I can miracle to fit you.” Thunder rumbles again outside. 

Aziraphale looks upstairs, then back at Crowley. “What about your servants?”

Crowley shrugs. “I pay them enough to keep any tongues from wagging, but I’m not exactly worried about Miss Crowley’s reputation, angel.” 

“They don’t get curious? That they never see you and Mister Crowley at the same time?” 

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. “None of them even met Miss Crowley before tonight. To be honest, I hadn’t considered that. I just knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with Melliston as  _ Mister _ Crowley, so I thought I’d try the wife.”

Aziraphale sighs regretfully. “I do wish I had been able to explain things a bit better before Sir Melliston approached us.”

Crowley shakes his head. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If wishes were Crowley’s, he and Aziraphale might be retired from the duties of Heaven and Hell altogether. Free, and duty-bound only to their own wishes. These tedious assignments, where they struggled to win a soul for one side or the other were increasingly bizarre and contrived— their current assignment is a fine example of that. He waves a hand towards the staircase. “After you.” 

Aziraphale begins to climb, and Crowley follows. He admires the shape and flex of Aziraphale’s calves through the now translucent hose. What a glorious time in human fashion. 

“What are we going to do, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, startling him out of his lascivious thoughts. “I’ve never died before. I think it hurts.” He sounds nervous. 

Crowley lets out a breath. “The humans certainly seem to think so. But you’re not going to get discorporated. We’ll . . . we’ll come up with something else. There has to be something we can do.” His skirts are heavy and water is seeping through to his petticoats. 

“Even if we can somehow get me out of this ridiculous duel, how are we going to complete our assignments? I’ve never had one that’s so directly contradicted yours before.”

Crowley feels a fat wet raindrop slide over his breasts. He shivers. “It  _ is  _ much more specific than other orders that I’ve been given in the past.” 

Aziraphale pauses at the top of the stairs. “Do you think they know?” 

“Do I think who knows?” Crowley has his head down, trying not to trip over the wet hem of his gown. He collides with Aziraphale, and they land in an ungraceful heap on the Perisan runner. Crowley is pressed into Aziraphale’s back, his hands around the angel’s belly. Aziraphale turns, a scowl of irritation on his face, and Crowley rolls to the side, his legs tangled up in his heavy, bedraggled skirts. The hand that Crowley braced around Aziraphale’s waist in a bid to steady himself has now fallen to the angel’s hip. His other arm is trapped beneath Aziraphale’s body. Crowley huffs with frustration. “Angel, you are the clumsiest-” he breaks off when Aziraphale rolls away, the back of his hand accidentally brushing over Crowley’s cleavage, where it is exposed above the top of his corset, and oh . . . oh, it has been a very long time since he had breasts that felt like this, and he’d forgotten how wonderfully and horribly sensitive they could be. He feels that particular pulse of arousal between his legs. Aziraphale sits up, and Crowley finds his hand has slid to the area near Aziraphale’s groin. He snatches it towards himself quickly, and tells himself sternly that he does not feel a pulse of lust come from the angel. It’s just his imagination, his stupid, fertile, heartsick imagination. 

“So sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale apologizes. “I didn’t realize you were so close behind me.” 

_ Gracious bastard,  _ Crowley thinks. He grunts. “S’fine.” He levers himself to his feet, cursing the many layers he’s wrapped in. 

Aziraphale is standing too, albeit more slowly. “I was saying, do you think they might know-- I mean, Heaven and Hell-- about our Arrangement?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I told you, they don’t check up-- certainly no one from my office does, and I’m sure it’s the same at yours.”

“Yes but this assignment, it seems . . . very strange, don’t you think?” 

“You mean that I’m to keep them married and you’re to break them apart?”

“I mean that we have  _ both _ been assigned to a  _ very _ specific task and been asked to achieve  _ opposite _ results. I don’t think in all our 5800 years that we’ve been given orders that directly oppose each other in quite this way.” 

“It was bound to happen eventually.” Crowley pulls his long hair through his fingers, and wrings it out on the carpet. “We’ve been lucky, that’s all.” The wind outside howls against the glass, and a draft rushes through the house. Gooseflesh breaks out over his entire body and he gives a slight shudder. 

“Oh, my dear, you’re cold,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to sneer at the concern in Aziraphale’s voice as much as he wants to revel in it. “We need to get you out of those wet clothes.” His voice is pitched lower than it was a moment ago. 

Crowley’s eyes dart up to look at Aziraphale’s face. The heat in the angel’s eyes startles him. Another shiver goes through him that has nothing to do with the bloody spring weather. Is this . . . is Aziraphale  _ flirting _ with him? After what he said all those years ago. . .  _ I know myself, Crowley. I’m not brave enough to try to seduce you. _ Has something changed? 

Aziraphale looks away, pulls at his wet waistcoat. “You said you had something I might wear?” 

“This way, angel.” He brushes past Aziraphale and opens a door on the left. 

They step into a large, ornate bedroom. A four poster bed takes up the majority of the room, but there’s also a wardrobe and a chair by an empty hearth that roars to life with a warm, crackling fire when Crowley gives it a stern look. He throws open the wardrobe, and removes some of his clothes. He gives them to Aziraphale, watching the blacks and reds turn to cream and blue in the angel’s hands. 

“Do you need help?” Aziraphale asks suddenly. “I mean, with your dress.” Crowley turns to look at him, and oh . . . oh, he can see a blush spreading across Aziraphale’s face. He can almost taste the lust coming off the angel in waves. “Only,” Aziraphale continues, “I know there are so many layers and if your servants are asleep-”

“I miracle myself in and out of them, usually,” Crowley says, ignoring his thudding heart, his conflicted soul. There are so many reasons this is not a good idea, the least of which because Crowley is still not over the  _ last time _ this happened. The last time he seduced Aziraphale he promised they would go back to just being friends. He promised he would never do it again. He said he would erase it from Aziraphale’s mind, he said he would erase it from his own mind . . . and he’d done the first part, just not that last bit. Not the part where he forgot about what it felt like to have Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, or Aziraphale’s hands on his skin. Those things he could keep to himself. They would keep him satisfied, keep him warm. They made him feel good, even when he was feeling at his worst. 

“I see,” Aziraphale says. Is that a note of disappointment in his voice? Or is it just Crowley’s wishful thinking? Aziraphale turns and begins shedding his wet things, his manner brisk and utilitarian. He drapes his clothes over the clotheshorse that has  _ miraculously _ appeared by the fireplace. 

Crowley feels at his worst right now. Because he wants to break the promise he made, and Aziraphale is being . . . 

_ Brave. _ He swallows hard. What the fuck is happening right now? He thinks about the last time. Aziraphale with tears in his eyes.  _ Crowley, we can’t do this . . . if Hell finds out . . . what would they do to you? We have to promise ourselves, never again- _

_ Angel, what if . . . what if we could just pretend it never happened?  _

They could pretend again. Crowley could just erase the memory, just like he did last time. Part of him feels sick when he thinks about it, but he watches Aziraphale undress, and he can feel disappointment rolling off the angel. And fright. Aziraphale is scared. Because what  _ are _ they going to do? 

It’s when he sees Aziraphale remove his shirt, when he sees the curve of the angel’s belly and the delicate white blond hairs gleaming in the firelight, when he remembers how it felt to have that skin under his fingers, that he gives in. “Angel,” he says softly, almost inaudibly. Aziraphale turns, seems surprised to find Crowley still standing exactly where he was a moment ago, still soaking wet and fully dressed. “I’m, uhm, I’m feeling a bit . . . weak.” It’s a lie, but he’s a demon, lying is practically part of his genetic makeup. “You know, I changed to my female form this morning, transported us across town . . . doing a few things the human way would certainly give me some time to rest up and rejuvenate.” 

He watches Aziraphale swallow, and he knows without a doubt that Aziraphale is going to fuck him before the night is over and his body is absolutely aching for it. He thinks back to Aziraphale loudly remonstrating Melliston and then reaching out to slap the man across his face. Brave. Stupidly brave.  _ I need this, _ he thinks.  _ Aziraphale  _ needs this. Just tonight. Just one more time. 

He takes a few steps forward. “I can do the gown myself, but I could use help with the stays.” In the firelight he can see Aziraphale’s eyes glitter with want. 

“Of course, my dear,” the angel says, but Crowley can hear the thickness in Aziraphale’s words. Aziraphale, angel though he might be, enjoys nice things. Nice foods, nice clothes, nice books. And that enjoyment extends to pleasures of the flesh. He would never act on his carnal feelings, not of his own accord, not under normal circumstances. But if Crowley asks . . . if Crowley seduces him . . . if Crowley tempts him . . . he will give in. He did last time, after all. 

Crowley begins pulling the pins out of his stomacher. His hands are shaking a bit, and Aziraphale covers them with his own. “You’re so cold, my dear,” he says softly. He rubs Crowley’s hands, pulls the demon towards the fireplace. Crowley shuffles forward, skirts swaying. 

He watches as Aziraphale goes to his knees before him, pulling the rest of the pins from his stomacher. He lays each one neatly in a small dish that has appeared on the floor just for this purpose. When he finishes, he sets the cloth aside on the drying rack and looks up at Crowley. “Take your gown off, and I’ll help with these skirts.”

Crowley swallows hard. His vulva is heavy with want. He reaches up and removes the gown. He has to wiggle a bit to get himself out of the damp cloth, but he’s free of it in a moment, and stands before Aziraphale in his skirts, stays, and chemise. The angel reaches around his waist and undoes the ties. He lifts the hem and stands while Crowley lifts his arms above his head to allow Aziraphale to pull the skirt over his head and off. Crowley thinks that Aziraphale, in just his breeches and hose, is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. His body warms as each layer is removed, Aziraphale’s hands spreading a trail of heat with each touch. Pannier, petticoats, pockets all land on the drying rack. 

Crowley turns without being asked, offering up the stays at his back. Aziraphale puts a hand out and traces a path beginning at Crowley’s shoulder and ending at his cinched waist. He tugs gently, loosening the knot, and then pulling at the cords that bind Crowley in. Crowley lets out a breath, feels his ribcage expand. 

“These are always so troublesome,” Azirphale mutters. “I’ll admit you do look lovely in this style, but these garments are quite restrictive. I’ve resisted switching to my female form simply because of them.”

Crowley pictures Aziraphale’s female form, last seen in the time of Nero. He hums softly. “The togas suited you, angel.” 

Aziraphale’s hands still. Crowley freezes, immediately wondering if he’s said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing. He’d told Aziraphale he’d forget about it, that they could pretend it never happened, but . . . the angel’s hands continue their ministrations, loosening the stays. “Did we actually meet in Rome when I was on that assignment?” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. He pauses again. His fingers trail over the cords. “I don’t remember that.”

Crowley is very glad Aziraphale is looking at his back and not his face. “Maybe not when you were in your female form, but we had oysters that one time,” he lies. 

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says. He continues to loosen the stays. He gathers up Crowley’s long curls and slides them over the demon’s shoulder so he can access the stays higher up. Crowley has never been undressed so slowly or tenderly. Wind howls outside. He shivers again. “Oh, my dear, my apologies, I’ll hurry.” 

“M’not that cold,” he says before he can stop himself. It’s not true, he’s freezing, but he’s not going to pass up an opportunity like this. It only comes up every 1700 years or so, after all. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly. He has loosened all of the stays and he puts his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. “Arms up, dear.”

Crowley lifts his arms in the air obediently, and Aziraphale pulls the garment off him. Crowley is left in his thin chemise. He keeps his back to Aziraphale. He’s not going to be accused of starting this between them again. This is  _ Aziraphale’s _ move and  _ Aziraphale _ is the one who will make it. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and his voice has that thick, husky timbre that Crowley has dreamed about for centuries. His hands rest on the demon’s shoulders.

“Why now?’ Crowley asks, and he’s surprised to find that underneath the lust and the desire and the tenderness, he’s  _ angry _ . Infuriated. Why does Aziraphale get to set the terms of their relationship? Why ask Crowley to just forget the whole thing almost 1700 years ago, play this complicated game of tease with him for almost two millenia, and  _ now _ . . .

Aziraphale’s hands leave his shoulders. “I beg your pardon?”

Crowley whirls on Aziraphale, his hair whipping around him. “This isn’t new, angel. This thing between us. It’s been brewing for centuries, you know it, and I know it, so  _ why now _ ?” 

“I don’t understand-”

“Come off it! You’ve wanted to get me into bed for the longest time, why tonight? Why now? Why here?” 

“Crowley, there’s no need-”

“There is  _ every _ need. There’s  _ your _ needs and  _ my _ needs, and right now they’re aligning, which is something they rarely do, so  _ why _ ?”

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s hands. “Because I might not get the chance!” 

Crowley pulls his hands away. “You might not get the chance to what?”

“To . . . to . . .” Aziraphale sputters. He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Crowley, I don’t think they’ll issue me a new corporation.”

“You could just shoot-”

“Yes, and I told you, I’m not killing anyone!” Aziraphale says, clearly distraught. He rubs his hands over his face, then collapses into the chair by the fire. He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands either side of his head, staring at the floor. Crowley’s traitorous eyes look at the broad curve of Aziraphale’s shoulders and he feels a frisson of desire. “If I lose this corporation, they won’t give me a new one. Not for a very long time. I had a performance review last month.”

Crowley frowns. “You didn’t tell me-”

“It’s why I stood you up.” Aziraphale’s voice is brittle. “Gabriel showed up just as I was leaving my flat. He was so rude to my landlady, I’m going to have to move. Unless Sir Melliston shoots me first.” He sighs heavily. Crowley waits. The fire crackles and the sound of the rain outside is harder, louder now. “Gabriel said I had been performing adequately-”

“That bit I did with the sheep in Padua last month was more than adequate,” Crowley puts in.

Aziraphale sits back in the chair, frowning. “I’m sure it was, but that’s not the point. Gabriel said I’ve been performing adequately, but he said there have been some concerns.”

“The thing with the sheep was too much.”

The angel scowls. “It has nothing to do with . . . whatever happened with the blasted sheep! It’s about my behavior, apparently. Gabriel is concerned I’ve . . . .’gone native’.”

“Gone native? As in . . .” 

“As in I’ve been behaving a bit  _ too much _ like a human and not enough like an angel. He was particularly concerned with the amount of books I own. He said it was bordering on avarice!” 

Crowley sighs, the anger fading. “I told you you had too many,” he says resignedly. He takes a few steps forward, and puts a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He lets his fingers trail across the angel’s shoulder, feel the warm, soft skin there. 

“Gabriel said that it might be time for me to come back to the head office for a while. I spent quite a bit of time trying to convince him otherwise. I told him I’d sell some of the books, give the money to charities. I promised less miracles for wine and food, and nice clothes-” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cuts in softly. “We’ll figure something out. You don’t have to-“

Aziraphale turns, gazing up at Crowley. His hand comes up and covers Crowley’s own. “Crowley, even if we can find a way out of this particular situation I’ve gotten myself into . . . we’re at odds on this one. Directly opposed. It’s never been this clear-cut before. If I succeed, you fail. And . . . my dear, what they would do to you . . .”

Crowley grimaces. “It’d be fine, angel. No problem at all. I’ve failed assignments before, you know.” He has. Punishment wasn’t pleasant. But it wasn’t being recalled to the head office for a forced inculcation of angelic principles. He shudders with the thought. 

Aziraphale’s eyes glitter like sapphires in the firelight. “I know,” he says softly. “And I can’t let that happen to you on my account.” 

Crowley swallows. “So this . . . this is your goodbye?” he tries to pull up some of his anger from before, but it has deserted him. “Until we meet again in a few thousand years?”

Aziraphale smiles ruefully. “You did look beautiful tonight, my dear,” he says softly. “And it seems . . . if we won’t be seeing each other again-”

“Angel-”

Aziraphale tugs on Crowley’s hand and then Crowley’s knees give way and he’s sitting in Aziraphale’s lap and Crowley’s protests die under Aziraphale’s lips. The angel’s arms are warm and heavy around him. Crowley closes his eyes and surrenders himself to it. He’s not ready to give up and let Melliston shoot Aziraphale, or let Heaven take Aziraphale back for failing his mission, or let himself be subjected to whatever torments Beelzebub can dream up for failing to keep Melliston married to his (apparently insane) wife. But this opportunity doesn’t come around every day, and he’s been dreaming of Aziraphale’s lips on his own for centuries now. 

Aziraphale kisses him softly, but surely. He seems more sure of himself than last time, more confident in what he’s doing. Crowley makes a soft noise of pleasure as Aziraphale’s tongue grazes his lower lip, before stealing inside. He can feel the curve of Aziraphale’s belly against him and the insistent press of his cock against his leg. He wants more. 

So does Aziraphale, apparently, as the angel’s hand slides down Crowley’s leg, and then under the chemise. Aziraphale’s fingers trail upwards, and then his arm hooks under Crowley’s knees and Crowley gasps as the angel stands, carrying him. In a few quick strides, Crowley finds himself being deposited on the bed. He’s too desperate for more to hiss at Aziraphale for treating him in such a manner. Crowley sits back on the bed and lifts his chemise over his head, tossing it aside. Aziraphale glances at the bedside lamp and it lights immediately, throwing gentle flickering shadows on the walls. Crowley feels gooseflesh break out all over him under the angel’s hot gaze. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs. He reaches down, presses a hand to Crowley’s ankle. “So very lovely, my dear.” He trails his fingers up as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself beside Crowley. He lays his head down next to Crowley’s, and for a moment they just look at each other, and Crowley thinks his heart might burst. His resolve hardens. Whatever he has to do, he will not lose Aziraphale this way. Heaven  _ will not  _ take him. 

Aziraphale reaches a hand out, brushes it over the side of Crowley’s face. “I love you,” Aziaraphale says softly. Sadly. “You do know that, after all these years, don’t you?” 

Crowley does. “‘Course,” he says, hating the slight waver to his voice. “Part of the job description, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale’s pink lips press together in a thin, tight line. “Yes,” he says, somewhat stiffly, regretfully. “I suppose so.” 

_ Disappointed _ , Crowley thinks.  _ In himself? For loving a demon? In me? For being what I am?  _ And because he can’t stand to see disappointment on Aziraphale’s face, he closes this distance between their mouths again, his tongue flicking out to taste the angel. He can’t change his nature, but he can put all of his feelings into this kiss. He might always be a demon, but he loves Aziraphale more than anything, and he will show him that love and then he will figure out some way to save them both, and then maybe Aziraphale won’t be ashamed of this love. Won’t be disappointed in his own nature, because then Crowley will be  _ worthy _ . 

Free to touch now, he lets his hands smooth over Aziraphale’s shoulders, palm at the skin along his sides, feel the hairs on his chest and belly. Aziraphale moans a little, and then pulls back, resting his forehead against Crowley’s. “Let me feel you,” he says, in a dark voice that sends a jolt of heat between Crowley’s legs. 

“Yes,” Crowley agrees. He lets Aziraphale guide him so that he’s reclined with his head upon the pillow. His thighs are parted and the angel is on his knees between them. Crowley feels a flush come over his body under the steady gaze. 

“I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale says sternly. Crowley cannot tell if it is the tone or the words or both, but a shudder of pleasure goes through him. His nipples harden. Outside, he can hear the rain has picked up again, a pounding rhythm on the slate roof above. “Not a general love for all things, not an angelic feeling of good will towards all of Her creatures, but truly in love, Crowley. I want you for my own, and-” 

“I love you,” Crowley blurts out. “Angel, I love you too.” 

Aziraphale drops forward and leans over him, pressing his mouth to Crowley’s and pressing Crowley back into the pillows. Crowley moans, his back arching up, his body looking for friction. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley pants as the angel breaks the kiss. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” His hands reach out, stroking the angel’s hair, his neck, his ears. “Please touch me.”

It’s like a dam breaking. All of Aziraphale’s hesitation is suddenly gone, and Crowley can feel the angel’s cock grow even harder through his breeches. 

Aziraphale bends his head, leaving a hot trail of kisses down Crowley’s neck, while his hands play a symphony of delight against the demon’s skin. 

Aziraphale’s hand curls around Crowley’s left breast, squeezing gently and bringing his mouth to the rosy red nipple. His pink tongue flicks out and teases the areola, before he brings his teeth in to nibble. Crowley moans, as Aziraphale turns his mouth to the demon’s right breast, giving it the same treatment. “Your breasts are just lovely, my dear,” he says into Crowley’s skin. He presses open mouthed kisses to Crowley’s right nipple with flicks of tongue and flashes of teeth. His other hand slides down over Crowley’s hip. Aziraphale uses his tongue to draw circles farther and farther outward from Crowley’s nipple, nuzzling him.

Crowley is wet and he can feel his vulva throbbing with want. He shifts his hips, searching for release. “Angel . . . oh . . . that’s . . .” he’s lost for words. He goes silent, and feels Aziraphale pull back. He looks down and can see the angel looking back up at him expectantly. 

“You were saying?” Aziraphale asks. The hand on Crowley’s hip stills. 

“What?” Crowley says stupidly. He feels slow, like he’s drunk. What is Aziraphale asking him? 

Aziraphale sticks his tongue out and gently flicks Crowley’s nipple, once. Crowley gasps. “About this,” Aziraphale prompts. “What were you going to say?”

Crowley swallows. “I . . . I like it.” 

Aziraphale’s blue eyes glitter in the lamplight. “Good, good. Tell me _ what  _ you like, love. I want to hear how much you like it. I like hearing your voice.” 

Crowley thrills a little at the word love. Aziraphale  _ loves _ him. “Just . . . Just what you were doing . . . “ Crowley arches his back, trying to press himself closer to that hot pink mouth. “Your mouth, angel,” he moans. “I love your fucking mouth.” 

Aziraphale slides his hand between Crowley’s legs, through the curls of red hair over his mound. He plays with Crowley’s curls, wrapping them around his fingers. Aziraphale reaches out to gently nibble once more at Crowley’s nipple, and slides one finger across the slick folds at the juncture of his thighs. Crowley whines. “Aziraphale, I, oh, I like your fingers, I like your finger touching me, oh, please, please, put it inside me.” 

Aziraphale makes a little gasp of his own and then slides his index finger in. Crowley bears down, bucks against his hand. “Yes, yes, just like that. Oh, fuck, angel. . . ” 

“You feel so very warm and wet, my dear,” Aziraphale says, somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s navel. Crowley feels the angel press kisses to his abdomen, slide lower. 

“Oh, please, more,” Crowley begs. “I love feeling you inside me, I want more of you, please. . .” Aziraphale’s mouth presses wet open-mouthed kisses at the space between Crowley’s thigh and his sex. Crowley whines. “Angel, please, I’m yours.”

Aziraphale’s mouth puckers and he sucks hard at the sensitive skin there just as he slides a second finger inside Crowley. Crowley wails. His hands scrabble at the bedsheets, desperate to cling to something. The hand that’s not buried inside Crowley’s cunt reaches up and grabs Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together. 

Aziraphale pulls his mouth off Crowley’s skin, and then blows air on the small mark he’s made there. Crowley sucks in a breath at the sensation. “Did you-” he begins, but he can’t finish the question because Aziraphale has moved that pink mouth of his to his left and his tongue is settling on Crowley’s clit. Crowley whines. “Oh, please, please suck me.” 

Aziraphale complies, at the same time thrusting his fingers in and out of Crowley’s cunt. Crowley’s hips begin to move of their own accord, bucking against the angel’s mouth. Aziraphale tongues Crowley’s clit. “Yes, yes, Aziraphale, oh, I love it, I love your mouth, I love your fingers fucking me, I love you.” 

Aziraphale moans around Crowley’s clit. The vibrations reverberate through him like an echo. “Faster,” Crowley pants, his legs sliding up, changing the angle. Aziraphale’s mouth follows him, and the angel makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like  _ mmmmm _ . “I love the way you feel, oh, you make me feel so good, I’m so hot, and so wet, and I just want you, only you, oh, please-”

Aziraphale adds a third finger and Crowley’s litany cuts off in a high whine. His back arches, his hips thrust forward. Aziraphale laps at him and it’s too much and Crowley comes with a long, low moan, his body almost vibrating off the bed. Aziraphale chases his orgasm, licking and sucking with renewed vigor until Crowley squeezes his knees together and says “Too much.”

Aziraphale lifts his head, pressing soft kisses up Crowley’s inner thigh to his knee. He rests his head on Crowley’s bent knee, watching the demon come back to himself. 

Crowley raises his head, catching Aziraphale’s eyes. “Hello, love,” Aziraphale says softly. 

Crowley melts. “Come here,” he says. He tugs the hand still clasped in Aziraphale’s and brings the angel into a kiss. He can taste himself on Aziraphale’s tongue. He slides a hand down Aziraphale’s chest, reaching for the outline of Aziraphale’s cock, hard in his damp breeches. Aziraphale gasps into his mouth. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he moans as Crowley presses kisses down his jaw, up to his ear. “Oh, my dear . . .”

Crowley whispers low in his ear. “Let me take care of you, angel.” He traces Aziraphale’s cock teasingly. “May I?” He nibbles Aziraphale’s earlobe. 

“Yes, please,” he whines. 

Crowley smiles and presses a kiss to the space behind Aziraphale’s ear. He thinks about Aziraphale naked, and his hand meets firm, hard flesh instead of cloth. Aziraphale startles. He slides one finger down Aziraphale’s length, and back to the tip, leaking precome. He takes Aziraphale’s earlobe between his teeth again and bites gently, feeling the angel buck his needy hips. “I want to feel you,” he says. “Feel all of you, every inch.”

Aziraphale gives a little moan as Crowley rubs his thumb over his leaking slit. “I just . . . oh Crowley . . . I . . . . ”

Unbidden, the image of Aziraphale’s calves going up the stairs appears in his mind. Crowley smiles into Aziraphale’s neck. He lets go of Aziraphale’s hand and releases his grip on the angel’s cock to snap his fingers. Aziraphale’s hose and those ridiculous shiny shoes appear on his feet. Crowley looks down and sucks in a breath.  _ Better than I imagined.  _ “Maybe there’s something to be said for clothes after all,” he murmurs. 

Aziraphale moves his head away from Crowley’s mouth and looks down at himself. “Honestly, Crowley!” he scowls.

Crowley laughs a little. “I love your calves in those hose, and the heels . . . oh, I think I’d love to be on my knees sucking your cock while you wear those heels.” He squeezes said cock gently, and then runs his fingers down over Aziraphale’s ballsac, tickling. 

Aziraphale throws his head back, thrusting his hips forward again. Crowley rubs Aziraphale’s erection against the side of his hip. “I’m never . . . going to be able to look at these shoes . . .” 

Crowley smiles wickedly. “Without picturing me sucking you off?” He pushes Aziraphale’s shoulder, rolling him over and sliding a leg over his plush thighs. He slides his wet pussy against Aziraphale and hums at the friction. “That’s what I want.” He begins to slither down Aziraphale’s body, but the angel catches his arms, stilling him.

“May I. . .” Aziraphale begins. He stops and bites his lip. “Could we . . .” he starts again, then trails off. He looks down, where his cock lies against Crowley’s hip. 

Crowley smiles lazily. “The word you’re looking for is fuck, angel.” He slides up Aziraphale’s body, humming in the back of his throat as he revels in the feel of all his hard edges pressed against Aziraphale’s softness, all that warm, hot, delicious skin. He captures Aziraphale’s lips with his own, hard and demanding, and then pulls back sharply. “And the answer is yes.” He throws a leg over the angel, and in one swift move slides onto Aziraphale’s cock. He gasps at the sensation. The angel feels thick and hard inside him. He’s full of Aziraphale and it feels glorious. 

Beneath him Aziraphale moans. His hands clutch at Crowley’s hips, trying to pull them even closer. “Your cock feels so good, angel.” Aziraphale gasps at Crowley’s words and Crowley feels himself get even wetter than he already is. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whines. “Please-“

Crowley slides a hand up Aziraphale’s chest, through the white blond hair. He lifts his hips sliding himself up and then down the angel’s cock. “You feel amazing,” Crowley says.”Ohh, angel. . .” 

Aziraphale begins to move his hips, lifting up with shallow thrusts. Crowley groans, and then Aziraphale sits up abruptly, cock still sheathed in Crowley’s wet heat. Crowley hears a clatter as Aziraphale slides out of his pretty shoes and they fall to the floor. He feels the silk of Aziraphale’s hose-clad calves slide under his arse as the angel crosses his legs. They’re face to face now, and Crowley startles at the intimacy of it, Aziraphale’s eyes staring into his own, as the angel slowly thrusts in and out of him. It feels like he is inside of Aziraphale and Aziraphale is inside of him, like they are entwined at a molecular level, a subatomic level. Aziraphale leans his head in, kisses Crowley, his thrusts becoming rhythmic, almost soothing. This is lovemaking unlike anything Crowley has ever experienced. He is open and exposed, but at the same time so very safe. He can be this open and exposed because here in Aziraphale’s arms he is safe, safer than anywhere. His thighs press at Aziraphale’s sides as he levers himself back and forth in time with the angel’s thrusts. He pulls back from Aziraphale’s kiss, says “I love you,” so softly his voice is barely audible. “Oh, Aziraphale, I do love you.” He repeats it over and over and every time he does he feels Aziraphale shudder a bit. 

Aziraphale’s skin is sweaty and shining in the lamplight and his mouth trails kisses and endearments down Crowley’s neck. “Crowley, my dear, my darling, my love.”

Crowley wraps his legs around Aziraphale’s waist, and Aziraphale’s hands drift down to cup his arse. 

“Close, darling,” Aziraphale breathes into his ear. “I’m close, love, I want you . . . I want you to feel good.”

“Good,” Crowley echoes. “Good, so good, so close to me, so deep inside me.”

Aziraphale let out a moan and one hand slides between them, sliding into the space between their bodies, seeking Crowley’s clit. Crowley brings his arm down to push Aziraphale’s hand away, place it firmly back on his arse. 

“Harder,” Crowley says, as he pushes his hips forward. Crowley trails one hand down Aziraphale’s chest, placing his own hand between his legs. He wants Aziraphale to take him, to own him, to claim him. Wants to be undeniably Aziraphale’s own. He fumbles between them, his hand slipping around Aziraphale’s cock as he thrusts in and out. In the wet mess between them, he uses his middle finger to flick at his clit, the others stroking Aziraphale’s cock where it continues to pump into him. 

Aziraphale moans at the new sensation, pulls back from Crowley’s neck to look between them and then to look in Crowley’s eyes. “Come for me,” he says, desperate. “Crowley, come for me, I want to see you-“

“Yes,” Crowley gasps. Aziraphale takes a hand off Crowley’s arse to squeeze his left breast, his thumb rubbing the sensitive nipple. Crowley moans. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

Then Crowley is gasping, coming, his eyes shut, head thrown back, his whole body tingling with sensation. He feels Aziraphale bite his collarbone, grunt “Mine” into his skin in a low, dark voice, and then the angel comes, his hips slowing as he spurts hot inside Crowley. 

Crowley breathes hard. His body feels boneless. He’s melted from Aziraphale’s intense heat and he’s not sure he remembers how all these complicated human limbs work. 

Aziraphale gathers him up and pulls him close, laying back on the bed pillows. He trails his fingers gently up and down Crowley’s spine, soothing and comforting now. “I love you,” Aziraphale says idly. “My dear, how long have I loved you and not known you felt the same.”

Crowley hums idly. He doesn’t remember how to move his mouth to form words. He nestles closer, lays his head on Aziraphale’s thick shoulder. Aziraphale plays with a strand of Crowley’s hair. “All this hair. . . it’s very pretty, but . . . doesn’t it get in your way?” 

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. He rubs his face against Aziraphale’s skin. The angel is so very warm. He thinks about shifting into his snake form and curling around Aziraphale. Scales begin to rise on his legs. 

“Do you want to sleep, my love?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley clears his throat, tries to remember how to speak with his human voice. “Yes,” he hisses.

He feels Aziraphale chuckle. “All right, dear.” 

Crowley shifts, changes into his snake form, shrinks himself to a manageable size and curls lightly around Aziraphale’s neck, reveling in the warmth to be found there. He presses his face against Aziraphale’s ear, tongue gently flicking out against the lobe. And sleeps. 

* * *

“Yes, I’m here to see Lady Melliston. My name is Mrs. Fell. I’m her aunt.” 

Crowley is jolted awake by the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. He is still in his snake form and his body tightens in alarm. He’s still coiled around Aziraphale’s neck, but now he is face to face with Aziraphale’s chest. More specifically, Aziraphale’s  _ cleavage _ . The rest of the world around him is a blur of white fur-lined cloak. 

“You’re awake at last,” Aziraphale’s voice murmurs almost inaudibly. The world under Crowley rumbles slightly with each word. “Don’t squeeze, my dear.” A gloved hand gently pats his side. “I’ve had an idea.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kudos and kind comments! Hopefully the next chapter won't take me nearly as long. Come find me 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me 


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